A-Sides and Alternates
by Commodore Toad
Summary: "This is like, censorship or something right? I feel less free." (A collection of AU drabbles)


**A-Sides and Alternates,**

**Or**

**Sans You This Would Be Impossible**

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

**A/N: **A collection of A&A-flavored AUs.

* * *

**Summary: **It's a nice story.

**Ad Astra**

Appointment to the _U.S.S. Helena_ is considered quite a coo among recent Starfleet graduates. Not only does the elegant ship boast a decorated chief medical officer and a brilliant tactician of a first commander, it's five year mission success rate remains untarnished an idea that-prior to the _Helena_'s maiden voyage-is referred to only in the strictest of hypothetical's.

There is also the small, rarely-discussed matter of the _Helena_ being commanded by the youngest person to attain captaincy in Star Fleet history.

Her origin story, that of a gifted but rebellious Earth child squandering her potential in dance halls and bike clubs in Dade County until she is convinced by a graying, visiting captain to put her sharpened instincts and innumerable skills to constructive use at Star Fleet-is just the sort inspiring mythos the admiralty adores. The less pertinent, more emotional threads of the narrative, De La Rosa's isolated childhood, her tense relationship with a mother who spends a good percentage of her time off planet, her father's death during his four and a half minutes as acting captain of the _Endeavor_, are used in the Star Fleet recruitment program as examples of the adversity destined individuals must overcome to realize their greatness. Legend asserts that De La Rosa grows into herself at the academy. That amidst a rebellious streak that can't be bothered to hide itself well and an energetic aptitude for memorizing star dates and solving tactical problems during voyage simulations, she achieves a sense of hard won peace that is reflected in the admiralty's frequent observation of her work and in her classmate's obvious affection for her.

Upon her graduation the girl is granted captaincy of the Helena in an exalted ceremony. The whole of Star Fleet is gripped by varying degrees of excitation ranging from reverential contentment to open, semi-hysterical weeping. Birds sing, laurel leaves float majestically before retiring on the outdoor stage and the ethos of the moment is captured by a spontaneous half rainbow marking the upper atmosphere.

It's a nice story.

The "graying" captain finds his future protégée on a bar room floor in Miami, the dubious winner of a brawl that includes five Star Fleet cadets (and one ginger-y innocent civilian whose desire for Hawaiian Punch I temporarily outweighs concerns for his personal safety) with her head against the bar trying to drain her Michelob Classic of its last stubborn drops. The "motivational speech" is less inspiring call to arms and more hour-long indictment of her life choices/character flaws punctuated by an incredulous, eye-contact laden "What the hell are you doing?" which Trish assumes refers to all seventeen Earth years of her life.

She's hit that fourth level of intoxication where her hallucinations are super vivid and occasionally have trouble shutting the hell up. She nods seriously while he pitches her the moon and the stars and a sense of purpose, only laughs when he gets to the part about "serving as an ambassador for galactic peace and sustainability" while blatantly using her dead dad as emotional leverage. By the time Trish hits the fifth stage, is grounding out her third mirthlessly _Why are you talking to me man?_ bookended by the amount of glaring that would light up the cortex responsible for self-preservation in most life forms but only succeeds at narrowing the proximity of his unholy vermillion uniform to her dry retinas, the stranger is kneeling to examine her bloody lip while shaking his head as though he's simultaneously tipping her chin up and witnessing a timeline where this tragedy is being prevented.

He waits until her hazy pupils focus on him before he issues his ultimatum, gaze unwavering, voice like gravel.

The deliberate rigidity of his speech will rob her of the coma-sleep typically afforded by a night of cheep beer and light cardio, will necessitate the furious search for her gym bag and the semi-legible note she folds into a paper crane and leaves on the kitchen counter.

(Hangover burning bright blue in the hellish high resolution of way too early in the morning, she straps herself into a window seat across the aisle from the inbreed pus buckets sitting in order of _dude what happened to your face_, avoiding eye contact, still wearing the imprints of her knuckles like face tattoos. Someone is humming the 2001: A Space Odyssey theme in a way that suggests they've mistaken "humming" for "scat-singing" and "scat-singing" for "loud feral mouth sounds". The lights flicker, and some losers in the corner start making blast off noises, and the bones in her right hand ache just slightly, lodged between her knees under the wash of light and the cracked, open sky, but the pain is gone and there's this sharp, sudden sweetness about the way it leaves, and she doesn't look anywhere-not up or out or down or in-when the shuttle starts to move.

On the edge of the sprawling lawns shored up by twin pairs of transparent gates and the steel whir of something distant and undefined, Trish thinks about getting back on the shuttle.

The moment passes.)


End file.
